


Being a Vanderboom is Suffering

by mrkanman



Category: Rusty Lake | Cube Escape (Video Games)
Genre: Other, also tw for suicide, if rusty lake wont develop these bitches i will, im gonna kill albert with my own two hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23726890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrkanman/pseuds/mrkanman
Summary: you want some wacky hijinks with rose hiding frank from her dad for two years?? *pushes you* huh would ya??
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	Being a Vanderboom is Suffering

Rose tried to pretend for many years now that there wasn’t a man living in the old well. When she was young, her father would spin stories about a terrible monster trapped inside, a vile and twisted creature that would devour children whole. He told many stories of that ilk to keep her in line as a child. 

Yet now, Rose gripped the frayed rope and heaved with all her strength, because today was the day that she would finally discover what was in the well, and though it was certainly a living breathing thing she was pulling up, it was much too light to be a fearsome monster. Her courage steeled, she gave one last yank and a pale spindly figure toppled onto the grass. 

Rose very nearly shrieked regardless, stifling a gasp behind her hand as some sort of hairy beast plummeted out of the well in a mess of, well, entirely nude limbs. 

A proper young woman would be aghast at the sight, or at the very least embarrassed, but not Rose Vanderboom. She had studied her father’s tomes on human anatomy (what else could a lonely teenager do with her time) and certainly she had little care for societal implications of the sordid scene, merely the fear of supernatural beasts that were still all too real in her mind. 

What this bearded man was, so weak that he trembled like a newborn deer, reminded Rose of a dissection on a lab table. But this man was very much alive, and undoubtedly would have something, anything new to say for Rose to savor like a new toy. 

She watched the man stretch his entire body across the ground, unfurling like an accordion. _It’s as if his joints had rusted over from disuse_ , Rose marveled to herself. _By all accounts he should very well be dead._

The silence stretched on for a time. Rose resting her hand against the well’s worn stone as she stared down at the stranger, and the latter sighing deeply as he laid across the cool grass.   
Finally, Rose spoke, “Who are you?” 

The stranger’s eyes snap onto Rose, and she fights back a shudder when meeting his gaze. His eyes were wild, almost colorless, but sharp like a cornered animal evaluating its options.   
She bravely jutted her chin and asked again, “Who are you?”

He didn’t move, with only the unsteady rise and fall of his chest indicating that he hadn’t died on the spot. He muttered something in answer, hoarse and indistinct. At Rose’s questioning stare, his brows furrowed, as if frustrated by her inability to understand. He opened his mouth again when a different voice called from the manor first.

“Rose! Rose, come inside. I need assistance with cooking dinner.”   
_Father._  
Rose and the man froze at the same time when Albert Vanderboom summoned his daughter for supper. He couldn’t know. The two share a glance with one another, the other’s alarm reflected in their faces, and no words needed to be said for what would come next. 

She had to hide him.

The Vanderboom home had long since become a museum, empty rooms coated in dust immortalizing the dead and living alike. There would be plenty of places to hide Rose's guest in comfort for at least several weeks, but it would only be a temporary solution. Her father was a paranoid, astute man, after all. He had a predilection for haunting the halls of the manor, keeping the ghosts of his past at bay. To her, it seemed as though memories were everywhere here, unpleasant ones. Memories that wished to maul and bite at any living thing it could reach just to add more pain to its mass. The house was not only a museum, it was a tomb. Of course she couldn't hide him here forever. 

She ushered the man inside through the front door, shooshing him as she practically carried him up the stairs. He wasn’t strong enough in this state to make the trek on his own, so Rose pressed all her weight into giving the man upward momentum to get out of sight as soon as possible. 

They were almost at the top of the landing when brisk footsteps approached from below. Rose quietly swore, and with one last grunt of effort, quickly shoved him in any direction, meat clattering across hardwood flooring...followed by the sound of a vase toppling over. Rose placed her hands against the banister, a last ditch attempt to feign innocent apathy, as Albert peered around the hallway. 

“There you are,” he chided. “I was worried.” Though his words were gentle, there was a lack of interest in his voice, as if the welfare of his daughter was like a menial task, such as filing taxes or performing dark magic on your family members. “What was that noise?” 

“I wanted to keep the dog in my room tonight, Father,” Rose answered, just a touch louder than she needed to be to address him.

Albert’s functioning eye narrowed. “I made it clear that he is not a pet. He is a test subject and spoiling him will interfere with the research.” When Rose bowed her head in shame, he pinched his brow and sighed. “Fine. Fine. Tonight you may keep the dog in your room, but I still need you in the kitchen to cut the vegetables for supper. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Father.” 

She waited for him to notice, for him to catch on to the fact that she was blithely lying to his face. Rose had found a terrible secret of her father’s; she didn’t need the details of it to know that. Why would he be keeping a man captive in the well? He must have known if he was trying to keep her away from it all these years. And who even was this wild man? She wished she could ask those questions. She dearly wished her father would see that something was off and tell her every detail of his sordid past. 

He didn’t. Albert nodded absently, looked over his shoulder, and left. Rose didn’t move until she heard the kitchen door handle click before bursting into a sprint up the stairs to check on her secret guest. 

He was gone. He wasn’t waiting by the stairs. After toppling a dusty floral vase, he’d apparently just gotten up and vanished. Where would he even go? Rose fussed, weighing her options. If only her father hadn’t walked in right at that inopportune moment that would force shenanigans to ensue. 

The mansion was large, and with many, many rooms. He could be anywhere. Rose considered where to start. 

...She didn't need to for long. The creak of floorboards snapped Rose out of her reverie and she turned. Only several rooms down was a door, left ajar. The last rays of sunset poured out from the open entrance, spilling orange shadows against the faded drapes. As she approached, Rose peeked at the hunched silhouette, and she was hesitant. She shouldn't have let this man out from his prison. She should confess to her father at once and endure whatever punishment he deemed suitable. There was one problem. Rose knew that if she told her father, he would kill this man. The certainty of this thought scared her more than whatever this stranger could think to do. 

The stranger stood in the middle of what was clearly once a child's bedroom. It was sparse, unsurprisingly, with only a small bed and a few tables covered in sheets. Save for one. 

A telescope on a stool. It looked emblazoned in gold in the sunlight cast from the terrace window, impassively overlooking the lake and the surrounding mountains beyond. The man had wrapped himself in the white sheet, but his attention was focused on the structure besides the window. A small memorial for a bespectacled young boy. 

Rose knew of the boy, though it took a great deal of sneaking around behind Albert's back to find anything about her family members. He was the son of her Aunt Emma. Emma was the only one in his family that Albert would actually talk about to Rose. She was a skillful painter, and her pieces were still hung in the family home. Rose didn't entirely see the appeal of the artwork when she was a child, surreal and sharp and oftentimes very sad. It was like trying to paint sounds and words into colors on canvas, and though Emma Vanderboom's work did just that, it was like her pain bled into the canvas as well. 

She was a talented gardener and dabbled in herbal alchemy as well, but beyond that, there was little else Rose was told of Emma until she found the newspaper. When she had hung herself. She had thrown herself heart and soul into the search for her missing son, and poured her time and the family's money into it all until she had a mental breakdown at the age of 29.

Rose felt a deeper connection to the broken woman than she ever had to the idea of her own mother. In some small way, she thought that her father would like her better had she been more like his sister. 

So when the bearded stranger picked up the weathered portrait that rested on the memorial, it came together instantly. 

Night fell, and the missing case of Frank Vanderboom was solved after thirty-three years.

**Author's Note:**

> im not actually that good of a writer so bear with me bitches while i get through this
> 
> also some help w ages bc this timeline is wild  
> rose is fifteen  
> frank is forty  
> albert is fifty-seven


End file.
